


How To Build A Bomb

by SoundandColor



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundandColor/pseuds/SoundandColor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that different really, not when you think about it. Just another self-destructive behavior to add to his already long list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Build A Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago, during the relative heaven of season 2: _Four Days Out_. Remember that episode where they're cooking in the desert for days and Jesse leaves the keys in the ignition, killing their RV? This takes that set-up and goes another way with it.

Jesse doesn’t even need to look at the menu, he already knows what he wants.

  
A tall stack of pancakes (blueberry and chocolate chip are his favorites), the biggest glass of OJ they have on hand, those French toast sticks they give you to dunk in maple syrup, and a big ass side of bacon.

  
The waitress (older than he is but younger than the man across from him) brings them their plates and disappears without speaking. The two of them are still dirty, Jesse’s pretty sure he’ll be cleaning sand out of his underwear for the foreseeable future,  and covered in sweat from cooking for three days straight in that hot ass tin can.  They should have stopped at a motel and cleaned up first but they’d been too hungry and no one’s given them a second look anyway.

  
Mr. White orders something boring that only old people eat (like oatmeal or some shit) and at the end of breakfast, he even pays the tab.

 

\--

 

They check into the first motel they come across and Jesse’s showered, spread out on his stomach and mostly asleep, when he realizes someone else is in the room.

  
He lays still for a second, his fingers twitching for his gun, before his hand shoots out toward the top drawer of his side table. He’s got it by the handle, ready to give this bitch (One of Tuco’s boys, maybe? They have a shit ton of enemies these days, though. It could be anyone.) exactly what they’re looking for, when they step forward and grab for his wrist. 

  
He starts to jerk away when they put their arm in the center of his back to keep him down and lean closer in the process. He glares back over his shoulder, narrows his eyes. Backlit by the fast food restaurant’s sign next door, he can barely make the dude out but he _can_ recognize the plaid cuff around the wrist of the hand that’s grabbing him.

  
He sighs in annoyance and jerks away from Mr. White as he places his gun back on the nightstand. Jesse almost tells him that he was this close, _this close_ , to getting his head blown off but dude’s still leaning awfully close to him and Jesse wonders if something’s happened. On the other hand, he knows if something _had_ gone wrong, Mr. White would’ve said it already.

  
He looks back at the other man curiously and Mr. White pats his shoulder, all awkward like. The same way his dad used to when Jesse was a kid and the old man was trying to bond or actually had something else on his mind. Something like: _Do you have any idea where that two-hundred dollars from our dresser drawer went_ or _Your mother cleaned your room yesterday and there were women’s underwear balled up under your bed_ …

  
He looks like he’s got an ulterior motive and when his hands drop down to the waist of Jesse’s jeans (his fingers are all shaky; he wants something real bad) Jesse’s got a pretty good idea what that _something_ could be.

  
It’s not _him_ though, Jesse doesn’t kid himself on that. Mr. White doesn’t do this (and Jesse doesn’t let him) because they like each other, because they consider one another a friend or want to run off to Iowa, get married and adopt 10,000 kids or whatever.

  
This is just another way for Mr. White to dominate their partnership, another way to keep Jesse under his thumb. The old man throws his leg over Jesse’s hips and straddles him. Mr. White shoves his hand beneath Jesse’s body and he can feel him, _it_ , heavy and hard against his lower back. The other man thumbs the button of Jesse’s jeans loose and drags his zipper down.

  
He could stop him now if he wanted (one sick dude against someone almost half his age would never stand a chance) but he doesn’t. Jesse’s always needed Mr. White’s approval.  He lays still and thinks of it as another experience, another notch on his belt. Like his first pull off a joint or the first time he paid Wendy to give him a BJ and she slipped a finger in the back.

  
It’s not that different really, not when you think about it. Just another self-destructive behavior to add to his already long list.

  
Mr. White’s cock is rubbing against Jesse’s naked ass now, getting ready to push in (the head of him slick with spit or pre-cum or, who the hell knows, maybe the old man keeps a bottle of astroglide on him at all times now) and Jesse breaths out, readying himself. It hurt the first time, but it’s mostly just uncomfortable now; the stretch and pressure of it. Mr. White hadn’t bothered to pull Jesse’s jeans all the way down and they hamper his movements now as he pushes his hips back and the old man hits home, gasps damply against his ear.

  
Mr. White doesn’t wait for his body to adjust, immediately starts long deep strokes that both hurt and make Jesse clench and pant with growing want.  His throat is dry and he swallows thickly, grasps at the sheet beneath him as his mind wanders to Jane. He thinks of Santa Fe, of museums and nice corner restaurants. He imagines holding his girl’s hand as they walk down the street, of pretending to be normal for an afternoon. Then Mr. White rears up onto his elbows, changing the angle of penetration and stealing his ability to think of anything at all. Anything but this.

  
The old man’s hips are moving faster now as he works his hand back under Jesse’s thighs, takes hold of his cock and he’s so shocked he almost bucks him off. He’s never touched Jesse before (not like this, not _once_ ) and Jesse may not be a chemistry genius but he’s not as stupid as some people think, either. No, he knows exactly why he’s doing it now. He’d had the audacity to focus on something else and Mr. White can’t have Jesse’s mind on anything but _him_. The old man’s jealous in everything he does; even this, whatever _this_ is.

  
Mr. White makes a noise in the back of his throat (somewhere between a hacking cough and a groan), uses his thumb to spread Jesse’s pre-cum and tugs him mercilessly—hand so tight, his dick feels like it’s losing circulation— just the way Jesse likes. He wonders, absently, if that’s the way Mr. White likes it too.

  
The old man’s doing that gasping thing he does (sharp inhales that sound like he’s dying) when he’s about to come now and not a moment later, he does: thrusting wildly, wetness leaking down Jesse’s balls and he expects him to do what he’s done before. To climb off and leave Jesse to take care of himself but instead of moving, he turns them onto their sides, hesitates only a second before he slowly resumes jerking Jesse off.

  
He almost pushes Mr. White away, _almost_. This isn’t part of their routine. They’re not supposed to spoon, they aren’t supposed to touch one another anymore than what is strictly necessary. Mr. White most definitely should not have been digging his nails into Jesse’s forearm, eyes following the hand at Jesse’s dick like he paid a nickel to get into the freak show. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

  
His hand isn’t as sure of itself as it was before but it still feels good, better than his own. Jesse shakes off his nerves and relaxes into it, bites back a groan and flexes his hips as Mr. White gains back his confidence. He reaches down and grabs his own balls, squeezes, elevating this interlude from good to freakin’ great, the only sounds around them the click and drag of flesh on flesh.

  
Jesse thrusts his hips into Mr. White’s fist and groans. He feels like climbing the walls as he shoves his face into the pillow and Mr. White’s swiping his thumb against the sensitive skin beneath the head of his cock and he can barely breathe. Then it starts, one of those achy, numbing orgasms where you almost can’t feel anything at all. The kind that are good but you know there’s something better beyond it that you _just can’t reach_.

  
Jesse can feel wetness against his abdomen but he doesn’t want Mr. White to stop even though he knows he’ll soon be too sensitive to keep going. He wants the old man to take off his clothes, to kiss him, to let Jesse fuck him, to hurt him, to do _something_ but Mr. White’s already up and off the bed.

  
Jesse stays still, sort of stunned, staring at the wall, gasping for breath. He doesn’t move as clothes rustle and zippers get pulled up. He doesn’t do anything until he hears the door leading out of his room opening and closing.

  
He starts to roll over before stopping with a hiss of pain. Everything below his waist is warm with a dull throb and it takes two more tries before he can position himself to face the door. He could definitely use a shower but it’ll have to wait. He needs to light up and even though there’s a fire alarm, Jesse would bet his left nut that someone took out the batteries ages ago.

  
He gingerly kicks his jeans the rest of the way off as he leans over to his bedside table, puts the gun back in place and pulls out a baggie, a lighter and some wrapping papers. Goes to work rolling and takes a deep pull when he’s done. Jesse stares at the picture window and watches light filter through the dusty blinds. It’s Monday morning now.

  
One day to go.


End file.
